


Campaign Events

by deadlybride



Series: The Ackles Presidential Library [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Closeted Character, First Time, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Jared starts to work for the office of Jensen Ackles, Texas State Senator, in anticipation of a campaign for the US Senate. It's a long shot.





	Campaign Events

**Author's Note:**

> written for the SMPC.

"You sound like you're being chased by bad guys," Danny says, tinny through the bluetooth.

Jared puffs. "I'm being chased by the specter of becoming one of those guys," he pants out, and has to pause, gulping air—"who show up on Face The Nation and look like they've been turned up under a rock. All pale and bloated and like their only meals are steak and good ol' boy whiskey. You know the life expectancy of a political operative?"

Crunching, in his ear. "Is there actually data on that?"

"Are you eating chips?" Jared says, adjusting the treadmill a little slower. Oh, god, his side. "And—I don't know, but it can't be good. Remember Foxworthy?" She makes a disgusted sound, still crunching. Like she can talk. "Yeah. So, running. You should try it sometime."

A snort, and crinkling through the earpiece. "Yeah, just as soon as you wear Manolos to a press event, He-Man." Jared wrinkles his nose, checks the BPM on his monitor. Doing okay, could be better. He ups the speed on the treadmill again. "Anyway. So, you excited?"

"Excited maybe isn't the word," he says. He's soaked in sweat, his thighs starting to ache, but he's getting the buzz of a good workout, forty minutes down on the treadmill and ten to go. A distraction, something to take his mind off his ten o'clock meeting. "Is pukingly nervous an option?" She blows a raspberry into her mic and he claps a hand to his ear, cringing. "Ow!"

"Deserved it," Danny says. "You'll be fine, you always are. Call me when you've got the job."

She cuts the call without saying goodbye, like a movie character, like she always does. Jared shakes his head, ups the incline on the treadmill. Time for some hill climbs, and putting aside everything he could worry about other than making it to the next fake peak.

*

The interview's in a meeting room in the same hotel they put him up in. Jared's never been in the Fairmont Dallas before this and he doesn't know how the senator's office is justifying the expense, but then—he was always the poor kid in his poli-sci clubs, and it just got worse at Columbia, so what does he know. He's showered, shaved, his hair combed in a fit of worry into a neat side-part, like his mom used to make him do on picture day. His suit's fresh from the dry-cleaners, his tie (and stomach) perfectly knotted.

"Hey, kid," JD's voice says, behind him, and Jared turns around to find him grinning in the doorway. "You look like you could shit a brick."

Jared laughs, strangled. "Hiding it that well, huh?"

JD shakes his hand, claps his shoulder. He's handsome, warm. Helps him get away with being kind of an asshole, and Jared's maybe got the tiniest crush that he does his best to completely ignore. He smiles wide at Jared, looking at him for a minute, before he squeezes his shoulder and gestures him toward a seat. "Senator's running a little late, he'll be here in a minute. He's already interested, don't worry. Why do you think you're here?"

"Because you know my uncle," Jared says, twisting his cufflink around in circles.

That gets him a bark of real laughter. "Jay, if that was why, you wouldn't even be invited to the city of Dallas, much less to join the campaign. You'd still be up in Michener's office answering his calls, the greasy fucks of the Capitol trying to bribe their way past you. Anyway. Your uncle's a drunk, who'd trust his opinion." Jared takes a quick breath, but—well, fair enough. JD's grin mellows a little, from shark to just mild danger. "C'mon, now. Nepotism's a bad word around here. You want a space, you earn it."

Jared takes a deep breath, looks up at the impersonal beige ceiling. Before he can say anything else there's a knock, single touch of knuckles on glass, and he turns around to see Ackles pushing open the door, followed by a dark-haired woman whose entire everything screams harried secretary. "Yeah, Maura, thanks," Ackles is saying, while Jared stands up, his stomach squeezing into a diamond. "And we'll call Gershwin at eleven, okay, and then I'll need to talk to Catherine about the event tonight."

"Yes, sir," she says, and files herself neatly in the corner with a laptop open like magic on her knees, and then Ackles's attention turns to Jared and Jared can actually see his mental calendar flicking over. Ten o'clock meeting, time to care about this now instead of a dozen other things.

"Jared," he says, and that movie-star smile blooms up, just as perfect as it was in a dozen press cuttings Jared pored over to prep for this meeting. He didn't know how natural it'd look, in person. Ackles holds out his hand and it's smooth, warm, the handshake practiced and firm. "JD tells me you're thinking of coming to help us out."

Jared blinks, and for a perilously long second language deserts him. Ackles is shorter than him, but then most people are, and his attention feels like a lot to take, all at once. He shakes hands, dutifully, and feels like he turns about four different colors before Ackles lets go of his hand and gestures for Jared to sit back down. "I'd be honored, Senator," he gets out, finally, inanely. He folds into the seat, feeling like his whole body is joints and ridiculous angles.

Ackles lets out a quiet _ha_, shakes his head. "Private meeting, Jared, you can call me Jensen," he says.

Jared nods. Like that's going to happen. Ackles—_Jensen—_glances at JD, then looks back at Jared, and drums his perfectly manicured nails on the lacquered table, a quick rat-tat. "Okay," he says, voice smooth and lovely. "Tell me the worst decision I've made, as a state senator." Jared frowns; Jensen raises his eyebrows. "Big state, a lot of laws to pass, a lot of votes to screw up, even in two years. Nobody agrees on everything. What would you run in an attack ad against me?"

On the other side of the table, JD's got his hand covering a grin, and Maura the secretary is tip-tapping away, unconcerned. Okay. A test. Jared flexes his jaw, sits up straight. "SB-1188," he says. "You voted in favor."

Jensen's eyes change, just the tiniest bit—sharper, looking at Jared with interest. "You think I should've voted against?" he says. "We were trying to make background checks easier for private sales. Seems like a no-brainer. Not that it mattered. Law didn't pass."

"Of course it didn't, this is Texas," Jared says. "You should've withdrawn support from the bill and worked with… Powell, Nelson, Whitmire—maybe Birdwell if you couldn't get Whitmire—and drafted rival legislation. Smaller scope, more of a chance of getting passed, and with you as the lead of the bill. Something reasonable, an incremental step it'd be hard to vote no on. Even if it didn't pass, it'd be something real to campaign on. Instead you were just another name on a bill that was dead before it even hit the floor, and you can't make news with that."

He could keep talking, but Jensen's staring at him, and when he sneaks a look over, JD's leaning forward, his elbows on the table. He licks his dry lips, instead, takes a sip of water.

Jensen's mouth quirks, after a few seconds of unbearable silence, and he leans back in his chair, searching Jared's face. "Huh," he says, finally, and the corner of his mouth turns up. Wry, terribly hot, and not something Jared's ever seen in a press photo. He exchanges a look with JD and then nods at Jared. "Okay," he says, "so, tell me how you'd draft a rival bill, then," and Jared takes a full breath for what feels like the first time in an hour.

"Uh-oh," JD says. "We're about to have a policy wank, Maura, we better get some food in here."

Jensen rolls his eyes, but he shrugs, too. "I could eat," he says, like it's an offer to Jared. "Maura, go ahead and cancel that call to Gershwin."

Uncertain, Jared smiles, and Jensen's eyes drop to his mouth, for a split second. JD says, "Let's make it Mexican," and then says, "Okay, Jay. Let's hear about this bill," and so Jared draws in a deep breath and starts spinning up a possible policy, and Jensen leans his chin on his fist, and listens.

*

Martinez and Douglass came up with the strategy and honestly, Jared could kiss them. Getting a Democrat elected to the US Senate from Texas, what a pipe dream—but _this_ candidate, maybe not so much of a dream, and the way they're organizing things is brilliant. Danny won't stop squealing about poll numbers, when Jared calls her. He tells her to relax—this is going to be a long, and slow, and careful campaign. They're still two years out from election day. "I'm going to be as excited as I want," she says. "I can't wait for you to get back to Washington. And with _him_!"

Him. Yeah, Jared understands the excitement. For all its brilliance, the strategy is simple: get Jensen's face in front of as many Texans as is humanly possible, as often as possible, being his charismatic, intelligent, kind, and—yes—gorgeous self. Deborah Washington from the DNC put it well, even if Jared sort of wanted to reach through phone and smack her: _get that man with his sleeves rolled up, holding a baby in front of a camera, and you'll swing the women's vote ten points in a single day._ Martinez called up a photographer friend when Jensen was working a United Way event, and there were indeed single moms there, and Jensen did indeed dandle a baby in a photo op, and—Jared doesn't think it was ten points, but he certainly saw some uterine spasms in the crowd of people watching.

"I wish you hadn't done that," Jensen says, into the phone. He's curled over his cell, looking mortified, in his own kitchen. Jared bites his lip, goes to the fridge to find beer. "I know. It just looks—staged, and ridiculous, when I was just trying to—yeah. Yeah, I know. …Okay. Yeah, good night."

The house is huge. A mansion, really, inherited Texas money holding up the solid bones of it, but unlike a lot of big Texas houses the décor's tasteful, the lines of it clean and classy. Much like the owners. The kitchen's a vast space, meant for entertaining, which makes it a weirdly long distance for Jared to cross over the polished hardwood, to Jensen leaning against the wall of the breakfast nook, to hold an open beer just inside his field of vision. He startles, like he forgot Jared was there, and then sighs, but he takes the beer. "Thanks," he says, quiet, and frowns down at it.

"Martinez?" Jared says, like there was a question. Jensen shrugs. "He's in charge of PR, that's his job."

"That's what Catherine said," Jensen says, and his voice is even but his mouth's bitter, and his attention isn't here.

There's a lot they have to do that isn't exactly clean, but this is one of those things that Jared can't feel bad about. No taking money from a donor they detest, no compromise on a bill that might hurt more than it helps to get to some future, foggy goal. Jensen was going to the event anyway, he was helping anyway. Letting people see that isn't the worst thing they've had to do, not by a longshot.

Still. Jared's watched Jensen interviewed on morning shows, in Dallas and Houston and Austin and San Antonio, has watched airbrushed professionally bubbly women exclaim over him and touch him and even, once, squeeze his cheek like he was a kid, and that movie-star smile never even flickers, not even a shift in his eyes betraying the way he'll shudder in the green room, after. He said to Jared, once, after another call with DNC Deborah, _good thing cheekbones are all I need to run for office, huh?_, and he played it like it was a joke, but it wasn't.

Jared lets the moment sit, quiet, and then nudges Jensen with his elbow. "The beer's for drinking," he says. "Unless you want to put it up on a plinth or something."

Jensen frowns at him, for a second, before it collapses and he smiles, though it's small with rue. "You think Catherine'd go for that? Right there in the library, _Ode to a Lone Star_."

"She could probably auction it for the foundation," Jared says, and watches Jensen warm up. "Ten grand, easy."

He gets a laugh, even if it's as small as the smile was. Jared will take it as a win. Jensen squeezes his bicep, eyes crinkling, and Jared stands still and takes him in, a tiny ache curling in his chest. The moment's gone, too fast—Jensen lets him go, and holds out his bottle for a clink, and then he takes a swallow, closing his eyes so his eyelashes make dark fans on the soft skin below his eyes. Jared's already forcibly turned his attention away, looking out at the vast dark evening through the kitchen windows, when Jensen lowers the bottle, and sighs in a way that doesn't sound so bitter, and says, calmer, "Okay, what's next?"

*

Sometimes Jared doesn't even know why they have marketing experts on board. Jared's in charge of policy, both for the state senate office and for the burgeoning campaign, and JD's in charge of shaping how the policy sounds, and Jensen's in charge of delivering it in a way anyone could believe in—and Douglass and the new guy, Alvarado, they do a good job of figuring how to get Jensen into a place where he'll actually be paid any attention, but they should all bow before the genius that is Catherine Ackles.

Another event, another day, and Jensen's not supposed to be the star of this particular dinner but journalists are swarming him, anyway. Jared holds his undrunk champagne against his thigh, watching the eddies of the party from the far edge of it. The governor's here, the speaker of the state house, oilmen with their big-haired wives, and even so, the photographers are following Jensen as he speaks easily with the head of the Texas board of education. He has no idea how Catherine secured an invitation for them, for this event in a sea of moneyed red, but it seems to be working.

She finds him, later, when she's introduced Jensen to some woman Jared doesn't recognize, and then made her excuses. He watches her circle to the bar for a fresh glass of white wine, and she swings slowly from group to group, smile perfect, until she turns and heads straight for him where he's lurking by the fountain. The water's pleasant; much more so than the socialites.

"I'd say, don't you think our boy is doing well," Catherine says, quirking an eyebrow at him, "but I don't think you've set a foot inside the party to actually know that for yourself."

He rubs his forehead, unaccountably warm for the cool fall evening. The tux isn't his favorite. "These aren't really my forte," he says.

Catherine tips her head, looks him up and down. "I never would have guessed," she says, dry, and she sounds enough like Danny that Jared snorts. She finds the edge of the fountain and sits, carefully, her dress poofing up in a crinkle of complicated fabric. "Come on, come and sit. You look like a scarecrow, warding off donors."

He sits, obedient, flaps his jacket by the lapel to get some air moving. They've been working together long enough that he's more or less comfortable with Catherine, but he wouldn't say it's easy with her, not yet. Maybe not ever.

A couple comes to look at the fountain, walking with their heads together. The woman giggles, and then after a look under her eyelashes at where Jared and Catherine are sitting, tugs the man around to the other side of the water, so they're covered up by the splashing light. Catherine smiles down at her lap, and glances at Jared, which makes him grin, too. "You've found a good spot for trysts and secrets," she murmurs. "And political machinations, though I don't know if that's what they're up to."

"Never know," Jared says, and she flicks her nails lightly against his knee. They're done up in a soft purple that contrasts against the cream and gold of her dress, but matches the dark purple paisley in Jensen's tie. Jared knows nothing about fashion, but Douglass actually high-fived Catherine when she came down the stairs at the mansion, and Jensen laughed, touching the small of her back as he leaned in to kiss her carefully made-up cheek.

"Jensen doesn't actually like doing these things, you know?" Jared looks at her to find her leaning on her arm, tilted away from him. She's watching Jensen talking to the elegant woman she left him with, her head tipped back like she's watching a far-off bird. "I dragged him along because he didn't say no, when we were first dating, and I introduced him to all the right people, because—well, how else was he going to get what he wanted. But he doesn't like it."

Jared sets his champagne on the lip of the fountain, the crystal clinking against the stone. "I know," he says. "He gets this look."

She turns her head, sighting him along her bare shoulder, the angle odd and sharp. "You see it too," she says, not really asking, but of course Jared does. So, maybe he's only known Jensen a year—they became friends immediately, their rapport easier and smoother than any relationship Jared's ever had, his whole life. Long strategy sessions, locked into his office at the capitol or in the den at the house, Catherine working on her own foundation business somewhere else, and Jared knows him about as well as he knows anyone. It's not a look that's easy to spot, unless you know what to check for, but Jared knows. Jensen's wearing it right now. That perfect model face, tipped down with every evidence of attention and pleasure in the conversation he's in. The problem is that it's perfect.

Catherine takes a swallow of her wine, and then pauses, and takes another. "Jared," she says, and maybe for the first time in the whole year he's known her, she falters. She licks her lips, and puts down the wine glass, and then opens up her tiny wrist bag to reapply a dab of lipstick. Jared couldn't tell that it was even smudged. When she's done she snaps the tiny bag closed and says, "Help me up," and so he leaps to his feet and holds out his hand for her, and takes what feels like no weight at all when she rises. In those heels, she's about Jensen's height. She looks off into the party at her husband before her eyelids drop, and then she turns and meets Jared's eyes, direct. "I'm very glad," she says, "that you're friends. When we win, I hope you'll continue to Washington with us."

"I plan to," Jared says. "If he'll have me."

That makes her smile in a strange, flat way, and she nods, and takes her hand back. "After the vote tomorrow I think we'll do dinner at Wink," she says. "Matthew will be there, he told me, and so there'll be photographers. We can get a nice shot with him before we go down to Dallas for the fundraising dinner."

Matthew, Jared thinks, before it clicks. McConaughey. Who she's on first-name terms with. "Sounds good, ma'am," he says, and she flicks his sleeve again before she clicks away on the flagstones, back to the party. He watches her tuck her hand into Jensen's elbow and lean in, laughing, to take over the conversation, and sees Jensen's perfect expression crack—just for a microsecond, a tiny moment that it turns out maybe only two people see. Campaigning is really a pain in the ass, Jared thinks, when all you want to do is govern. There's a giggle behind him, from the other couple, and he sighs, and picks up his champagne glass, and wades into the party.

*

Town hall after town hall, press conferences and charity appearances. Town halls again. Jared's reliably informed that Jensen gets an order of magnitude more mentions on Twitter than Cornyn. He has to take their word for that—his own Twitter account is under a fake name and he keeps it entirely separate from any kind of politics, or news, or world events. He likes the account that tweets like Geoffrey Chaucer; he sent it to his mom.

Jensen isn't on Twitter—or, it's more accurate to say, Jensen himself has never actually used Twitter. Jared, JD, Catherine, and Alvarado all have the password to an account in his name and can monitor its activity. Alvarado spends an hour every day carefully finding appropriate things to like, to retweet, to mention. Jensen's account follows the March of Dimes, the United Way, the DNC, the Cowboys, the Mavericks. "Not the Spurs?" Jared had asked, leaning over Alvarado's shoulder, and he expected the swat to the back of the head he got, and grinned while Jensen said, "Don't you dare."

Another town hall today, this one close enough to Austin that they can get home the same night. The nice people of New Braunfels come out to the meeting at the brewery and they really, really listen. There's the usual crowd of women there—college-aged with their cell phones out and filming, soccer moms with careful makeup—but there are some folks Jared hasn't much seen, at the events over the past year. Good ol' boys in dirty John Deere caps, and a few couples in suits and sweater-sets, people Jared would've sworn would be voting Cornyn without even a second thought, a year ago.

It's a good event. Jensen refuses to let the team pre-screen questions, one of the very few things he's completely put his foot down on, and so there are some decent ones but also some from very, very far out of left field, and Jensen handles them all with aplomb. He's so… decent. That's what Jared keeps thinking, standing in the very, very back of the brewery next to a twitching JD, a red Solo cup of water in his hand that's sweating in the humid air. "Ma'am, I understand your frustration," Jensen says, to a plump lady complaining about the DNC's gun control position, and the thing is that he actually does. He listens, he understands. Jared watches his face, his lightly furrowed brow, the solemn set to his mouth. "There's so much complexity to the issue. I know Texans are hunters—hell, I used to go out with my dad, too, every season for white-tail deer. How about you-all?" Murmur of agreement; a John Deere cap gets tugged. "And I know we have to protect ourselves, and our families. But I really believe there's a middle ground, where we can set reasonable limits on people who would abuse the rights the Constitution gives us, and try to do harm. If you all send me to Washington, I promise I'll do my best to keep Texas safe."

The little round of applause isn't feigned, and it's led by the women in their sweaters, their gold crosses gleaming. Jensen produces a tight, solemn smile, nods, and when Jared looks at JD he's scribbling something in the notebook he always keeps in his jacket pocket. Score one for reasonableness, Jared thinks.

Afterward, Jensen mingles with the people, and the staff cluster in the parking lot, JD smoking and Jared trying to calculate how much sleep Jensen's going to get before the drive tomorrow. "The event's at eight o'clock," he says, fretful. "Who thought that was a good idea? Five hours in bed before two hours on the interstate, are they kidding?"

Beside him, JD laughs, and then starts coughing. "You sound like my ex-wife," he gets out, and Jared must pull some sort of face, because JD waves a hand, getting his breath back. "Breakfasts in the spirit of compromise and bipartisanship kinda have to happen at breakfast, kid. Jensen can handle it. He's a pro at this shit."

Jared knows he is. That's not the point. JD looks at him, squinting for an odd second, and then shrugs. "Maybe you can sing him lullabies in the car," he says, grinding his cigarette out on the heel of his boot. "I know you got that pretty voice."

"And screw _you_, JD, thanks," Jared says, and JD grins at him, waves him away.

In the car, later, Jensen really is dog-tired. The staff driver has the radio on, some station that's pushing out old country—Tony Joe White, Townes Van Zandt, Willie. Jensen keeps rubbing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, and Jared keeps going with his recap of the points they're supposed to hit at the breakfast tomorrow but he can tell Jensen's barely taking it in. When he finishes, Jensen takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long slow stream, his lips pursed.

Jared knocks his knee into Jensen's, gentle. "You don't have to sound so excited," he says. "Pancakes are great, I know, but let's take it down a notch."

Jensen's mouth curves and he drops his head against the back of the seat, keeps his eyes closed. "Maybe you should just do it," he says. "You know all the policy. Hell, you wrote it. I'm sure you could charm Murchison's ass right out of his pants."

A little more—crass, than Jensen usually is. Jared licks his lips, presses them together. "His ass would prefer you, I think," he says, after a weirdly long second, and Jensen smiles for real, tips his head to the side so he can actually look at Jared. Jared smiles back, Willie husking along on the radio. The car's a nice one, bought by Catherine and not the state, so the road hum's minimal, the windows tinted, and other than the driver up front it feels very private.

They look at each other. Jensen's pale, tired, but he's still about the most beautiful man Jared's ever seen. He was officially informal at the event today, so there's no jacket, his sleeves rolled up, and the soft barely-blue of his shirt fairly glows in the dim light from the car console, the faint headlights that creep through the tinting on the rear windows. They run together in the evenings sometimes, in hotel gyms, and occasionally along the river walk in Austin, although that's harder because they get stopped by poli-sci students, by girls who follow the campaign's new Instagram account. It's been keeping Jensen fit, tanned and healthy and photo-ready, but there's no way that's happening tonight. Too bad; Jared looks forward to it.

Takes a minute for him to realize that as he's watching, he's being watched. He blinks, resurfaces, and Jensen's just—there. Right there, fully present inside the car, with his eyes on Jared's in the half-dark. His lips part, like he's going to say something, but he doesn't. The backseat isn't huge; Jared can feel the heat of him, an inch of space between their knees, both of them spreading out. Jensen's hand lifts off his thigh—white flash of it in the dark—and it hangs for a moment that has Jared's lungs frozen before it curls into a fist, and then Jensen lifts it to his own face, drags over his eyes, scrubs his cheek where the stubble's started to grow in, thick with the end of the day. Jared turns his head, stares sightless at the blurred hills, the tree-shapes and fences picked darker out of the dark, presses his fingertips to his mouth. What is he doing.

"What time are we leaving tomorrow?" Jensen says. Not a rasp, not a tremor.

Jared lets his chest expand, the air coming out of him without a sound, before he responds. "We'll be at the house to pick you up at 5:30, aiming to leave at 5:45." He digs his thumb into his cheek, feels the nail denting his skin. "Better set the coffeemaker to have a pot ready."

"Like I know how to set that up," Jensen says. Pause, while Willie song fades out and the local station's commercials start. A car dealership; an ad for Jensen's own campaign. They both listen to it, Jensen's rehearsed smooth voice talking about _sending a real Texan to represent Texas's interests._ A lot of arguing, about that one. When it's over, Jensen says, "Maybe you can figure it out. You're good at the technology stuff."

When Jared looks back over, Jensen's eyes are closed, his head tipped against the seatback, again. Like nothing. "I don't think we can count coffeemakers as technology, Senator," Jared says, and it's put away, like it never happened. Nothing did.

*

After that little girl from Hungerford gets kidnapped, and found, and after her father beats the kidnapper to death—that's a hard day. Jensen gets asked about it in a presser, a hundred events under his belt on this leg of the campaign and a hundred to go, and he doesn't have an answer. It happened too fast, the events unfolding and getting to them staggered. There's a hashtag for it that boils up before JD can hash out something in language that could halfway satisfy, and that sharp-jawed woman from the Dallas Morning News has a microphone under Jensen's chin, a gaggle of reporters watching him. He stumbles, on camera. At one step behind him Catherine puts an unseen hand to his back, and two steps behind her Jared's eyes are fixed on Jensen's shoulders, on the set clench when he takes a breath. "I haven't had a chance to speak to the family," Jensen says, after a few seconds, and the reporter presses on—_but what do you think, about charges, about possible jail time_, and Jensen shakes his head, turns his face away from the lens. Jared watches him blink, blur of light in front of him. "I think I'd have done the same damn thing," he says, and in the resulting anvil crawl of flashes JD's face is schooled to total stillness. Jared's not sure he managed the same thing.

An argument, later, in the hotel suite. Jensen's in his bedroom, a few safe walls between him where Douglass is having a mild fit, scrolling through Twitter, on his phone to the polling agency they've been using in California. On the couch JD appears to be in a fugue state, staring through nothing, though Jared knows that's what he does when he's writing so fast he doesn't have time for a pen—Catherine's gone, on her way to the next event in Sugar Land for Democratic women—and Alvarado's pacing, half-arguing with Douglass, randomly including Jared in the conversation when he can remember to. "You _cannot_ poll on reaction to a child—you can't," he says, and Jared says, "Yeah, for decency's sake if nothing else," and maybe that was too acidic, maybe it's been too long a day for all of them.

Alvarado rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "Decency or not, unbreakable opinions are formed on the back of shitty things, Jared." Just as sharp, and Jared folds his arms. They finally got to watch the footage. The man was screaming, as the cops pulled him off, and then he was quiet, sitting on the curb. Crying. "So now the young, former military, handsome, beautiful wife, no kids, polls in the high 80s with women ages 18 to 35, polls in the high 30s with white men ages 35 to 50—now that guy has to own that statement. There's no going back on that. So now I get to figure out how to spin this and hope to fuck it comes off as Texas tough with Texas dads and strong protector with Texas moms. Decency doesn't come into it. Thank you very much."

Jared leaves, after forty minutes of getting nowhere. This wasn't supposed to be what today was about. In his room he takes off his tie, his suit jacket, washes his face in the sink, and then goes down to the hotel bar, orders a Lone Star, and then a Jameson with a lot of ice, and then he sits there and watches the baseball highlights on the ESPN feed, quiet jazz playing. The bar's like every other bar, in every other nice hotel that Catherine's money pays for. The campaign's largely self-financed. That's been a big talking point. Even so, donations have been roaring in, for ad-buys and flyers, for lawn signs. As they drove in through Houston, Jared saw more blue ACKLES FOR TEXAS signs with the white lone star than for any other candidate, local or otherwise. That's something, he thinks, even if it's nothing he can count on. He crunches the slowly melting ice between his molars, watching the television. Braves are having a bad year.

Upstairs, he knocks gentle on room 502. It's half an hour to midnight, and if he has any sense, Jensen's sleeping.

The door opens. Jensen's in socked feet, his slacks, a white undershirt. His hair's wet around the edges, like he just washed his face, and he doesn't look surprised to see Jared, and doesn't say anything when he swings the door wider, and lets him come in.

Nice suite—they always are. A king bed, a big television that's conspicuously off when so often Jared feels like he can't escape CNN. A bar, which Jensen goes to, and pours himself a glass from a mini of Maker's. He pours a second without asking, and slides it one foot to his right, and so Jared comes and leans against the cabinet with him, and sips at the bourbon. Sweet, but hot without ice or water to cut it. He rolls it through his mouth, feeling the fire of it numb his nerves.

Jensen drains his glass like it's a chore, then goes through the mini options and finds the Bombay Sapphire, and shrugs, and pours that one into his glass instead. Jared reaches over to the ice bucket and fishes out two cubes, drops them into Jensen's drink with a splash, and Jensen's shoulders slump. "You want to talk about it?" Jared says, zero expectation in his voice, and Jensen shakes his head. "Me either."

"Well, that works out well," Jensen says, and kind of laughs, though it's not funny. Jared hesitates, reaches out. Touches his forearm, braced against the bar top, and feels the muscle there flex in reaction. Jensen shakes his head, looks up at the cream crown molding, licks the sharp point of one canine. A strange habit, when he's nervous, and one Jared's catalogued, like he has—so many things.

Long day. Jared sucks his bottom lip, tips his head. "You know why I wanted to work for you?" he says.

Jensen frowns, brought abruptly back from wherever he went. He leans on one elbow, weight tipped onto the bar. "JD recruited you. Because you interned with the West Wing, and then you were a staff assistant with, uh, Michener's office."

"And he and my uncle were golf buddies, a hundred years ago," Jared says, and Jensen rolls his eyes, like that mattered not one iota. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. Jared's almost given up wondering, and it doesn't matter now, anyway. "That's not why. I had an interview with Hollingsworth's gubernatorial campaign, in Illinois. They said I was a shoe-in."

"Would've been a good job," Jensen says. He's focused, paying attention. His eyes on Jared's, and they're still a shock. Every time, somehow.

"You gave this speech," Jared says. He remembers it—not every word, but phrases still pop up in the back of his head, randomly. _A glimpse of America's promise. The future, carved out not on the backs of those who suffer, but by those who strive and believe, who hope for something better for all our children_. He quotes aloud, and Jensen frowns, looks like he can't place it. "It was the opening of a middle school. One of the kids who had to attend, you know—those kids they shove into the crowd behind the politician—she put it on YouTube. She thinks you're dreamy, by the way."

"Is she old enough to vote?" Jensen says, making it a joke.

Jared shakes his head, ducks his chin. With careful, slow fingers, he reaches out, and circles Jensen's wrist. Feels the tendons flex, even holding him featherlight. "It was just—it was a middle school. This—stupid, nothing thing, for people who were just there for the ribbon cutting and the cake, and you just…"

It was a bad video. The crowd of kids kept whispering among themselves, and a breeze was blowing. Mostly the girl caught the shoulder of the boy in front of her, but Jensen's head was visible, his hair catching glints of gold in the sunlight. Speaking without a teleprompter, on the sidewalk next to the flagpole. Saying what he believed, and even in the crappy cutting-out audio it rang true as a bell.

Jensen's fingers flex, and Jared looks up to find himself the subject of laser focus. No smile, and his eyes sharp, and the color leached from his cheeks to his ears, hot pink. Jared licks his lips and watches Jensen's focus drop, like he can't help it, and he pushes forward, around, knocks Jensen's weight back so he's pressed against the bar, and he keeps hold of Jensen's wrist, feels it flex, feels how he doesn't pull away.

"What," Jensen says, breathes, but he's not really asking. Nearly midnight at the end of a horrible day and Jared—Jared's been waiting, he _knows._ He puts his free hand against Jensen's chest, and leans down the handful of inches, and kisses him.

Caught, off-center. He breathes in, readjusts, nose brushing Jensen's, and Jensen's mouth parts, shaky air pushing in and out. Jared kisses him, soft but not tentative, and there's a thunk—the glass of gin, in Jensen's other hand, dropped to the carpet so that Jensen can grab at Jared's hip, his fingers curling in tight to a mixed-up messy handful of Jared's dress shirt, his slacks. Jared slides his hand up Jensen's chest, feels it heave, grabs the back of his neck and gets a groan for it, strangled and vibrating deep under the skin. Jensen gasps into him, his wrist twisting, and Jared keeps his hold and licks Jensen's mouth, tastes the bitter-pine and flowers of the gin. His lip trembles and Jared sucks it in, _so_ soft, his own heart thumping huge somewhere his lungs should maybe be, and it's worth it for Jensen to make that sound, tiny and deep and clearly not affected, not put-on, nothing but true, because—he is, he is.

It's an effort for Jared to pull back, to breathe, and he rolls his forehead against Jensen's before he does. He gets a view of huge eyes, pupil-spread and staring, and a flush riding high on those much-talked-about cheekbones, and a mouth wet and open and, god, more than Jared's composure can take.

"Tell me this isn't a surprise," Jared gets out, his thumb brushing Jensen's jaw, and Jensen blinks, swallows, shakes his head, and Jared groans and gets both hands on his face and kisses him again, his whole body lighting up at how Jensen yearns into it, hips pressing forward, his hands grasping, his breath coming so fast and unsteady through his nose Jared would worry he was going to pass out, if he wasn't more worried he was going to do the same thing.

He pushes Jensen enough that his head hits the wall and Jensen groans, and Jared tugs him in, instead, wraps an arm around his waist, feels where the undershirt's threatening to come loose from its tuck into his slacks. Great idea, stellar—he tugs, makes a space—and then bare silk-smooth skin, shocking-hot, up the muscular expanse of his back, and the sound Jensen makes when Jared tucks his fingers below the line of the waistband will be jerkoff material for the rest of Jared's life, if he makes it that far. Jensen's own hands clutch, grab—uncertain, random—and Jared thinks, crazily, that maybe this is—is it possible, that this could be—but he doesn't care about that, not now, because this moment is just for them. Just for them, after he's waited so long.

Jared tugs, shoves. Jensen's ass fetches up against the bed, its pewter duvet unmarked and glinting where his hands grab it, trying to balance. Jared leans over him, kisses him, and the way Jensen sucks in breath and tilts for it, like he's hungry for it, that's—but no, he has to focus, and he gets his hands down between them and yanks open the three hundred dollar belt, he pops the button and the internal button too that keeps the line so smooth, and he pulls back from Jensen's mouth to unzip, to shove his hand in, because he wants to look, and what he sees is Jensen staring at him like he's some unheard-of thing, some alien from another universe, something he never expected in his life to see. "Jesus Christ," Jared says, stupid, and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut, turns so his chin's touching his curved-in shoulder, and Jared looks down between them and tugs, shoves fabric, and gets his first view of—oh, yes, that. His dick, half-hard and getting harder, soft skin and such a pretty blushy color, darker at the head, and Jared goes down to his knees, tugs the tangle of cotton away. His balls, heavy but neat, and the hair trimmed down, dark gingery brown to match his beard, and Jared looks up the line of his body to find Jensen's hand clapped over his mouth, his eyes still tight-closed.

"Hey," Jared says, thinking—no, no—but Jensen's eyes fly open like he didn't know he was hiding them and he stares down, one hand still over his mouth but the other touching Jared's shoulder, his neck, his hair. Jared smiles at him and then grabs up that pretty dick, ducks in and licks. Burst of salt-taste, spongy-soft head, cut like so many men are—but he gets a noise, bled around the clamp of Jensen's hand, and he fists the length and licks his lips and ducks in, really goes down, dozens of college-days hookups in the back of his head, trying to make this good, perfect, the best Jensen's ever had. He could ask _is this okay_, he could ask _is this what you like_, but he doesn't—care, and he doesn't think Jensen does either. He wants it fast, quick, and Jensen's dick is already heavy in his mouth, the tang of it wild, the taste throbbing straight down to Jared's gut, his own dick chubbed up and throbbing in his slacks. He grips Jensen's hip, angles deeper, gags for a second in his eagerness and feels Jensen's hand clutch at his neck, into his hair—and gulps and breathes and goes back down, pressing Jensen into the bed with his own weight, Jensen's thighs jumping and tensing around his shoulders, spreading wide and clutching at him seemingly at random, his body quivering, his smell filling up Jared's head. God, that smell, and the taste, and the velvety-soft of him pushing past Jared's lips, the ache starting up in his jaw. Too long since he's gone down on someone—and maybe never, ever, since he's done this when he—wanted it this much—when it mattered, like it does now—and he rises up on his knees, pulls off with a gasp, looks up with his eyes watering, and Jensen groans behind his hand and then pulls it away, touches the corner of Jared's wet mouth, thumbs under his lip, his eyes wild and shocky, and then he grips at Jared's shirt, tugs, and Jared crawls straight up and knocks Jensen backwards onto the bed, crushes their hips together, dives for his mouth.

Their teeth clack and it's awkward, their heights mismatched and Jensen's body curved backwards over the edge of the mattress—but it doesn't matter, doesn't matter. Jensen's hands scrabble between them, get at Jared's belt, and Jared takes over, opens up his slacks and lets his dick free and it shoves out of his fly wanting as much as he is, and Jensen lifts up on an elbow and looks down between them and mutters _oh my god _on what sounds like no breath at all, and he reaches down and touches the wet head where Jared's been leaking into his boxer-briefs and Jared shudders, braces above, lets him. Jensen's face is so pink he looks like he's gotten a sunburn, his eyes practically black, and he squeezes light under the head, and then harder, and when he looks up under his lashes and meets Jared's eyes it's the hottest moment of Jared's entire life on his planet, bar none, game over, tilt—

They come in an absurd tangle, both mostly still in their clothes. Jensen's leg catches around Jared's, leverage as he grinds up into where Jared's humping at him, riding in the slick from his own mouth and from how Jared's leaking, and Jared hooks his arm under Jensen's neck, keeps him close to kiss and breathe into and refrain, barely, from biting, succumbing finally when Jensen's squirming under his weight and pulsing and breathing _oh, oh_ against his lips, a plush hot wet miracle—Jared bites his own hand, sinking his teeth into the meat of his palm, ducked down with his cheek flush against Jensen's, humping down into the slick hot soft of his belly and coming finally so sharp and violent that his balls actually hurt with it.

After—catching breath, and finding all the aches that managed to hide themselves until they mattered. Jensen squirms under him, more serious this time, and Jared flops off to one side, to stare up at the ceiling and pant and feel his stomach uncoil, his skin catching the cool air and rippling all over, once. Beside him, Jensen sits up with a groan that sounds like actual pain, hunched over. Jared looks at his back, the sweat-stain soaking the undershirt to his skin, and then reaches out and flattens a hand right over the center of his spine. Makes Jensen go still, before it makes him turn his face. Not enough to actually see Jared.

Well, screw that. Almost two years of knowing him, of hoping against insane hope, of waiting—Jared's earned a little daring. He sits up, and it's absurd, and he hopes anyway. He touches Jensen's chin, a brush of his knuckles. "Jensen," he says, because that's all there is to say.

Jensen licks his lips, his eyes lowered. "You never call me that," he says, very quiet.

Jared hangs there, waiting, before Jensen turns and pushes into him, not even kissing him—he clutches Jared's shoulders, tucks his face down against his throat, caught awkward until Jared pulls at him, careful. They end up at an odd angle on the huge soft bed, half-dressed and sweaty. Jared kicks off his dress shoes. Jensen's thigh drags against his, his head tucked down into Jared's chest. Jared rubs his thumb behind Jensen's ear, marveling all over again at the soft of it, the hard bone. He has freckles even there. All this time and Jared never knew that.

It's after midnight, sometime. Reality's trickling back in. They need to clean up, need to get to bed. Jared looks over the top of Jensen's head at the massive blank black of the television. Need to get separated, because this—can't be. This can't.

"I don't," Jared starts, and doesn't know where to go with it. He doesn't have a strategy for this; there's nothing to out-clever, no gameplan to follow.

Jensen's hand comes up to clutch in his shirt, over his heart. "I know," he says, but he doesn't sound miserable, or careful, or like he's trying to be soft. He says _I know_, again, and his heart's in it. Jared knows that voice, has followed it, and he looks down in time to see how Jensen's face tips up, and to see the look in his eyes.

*

The polls have them neck and neck up to the morning of election day. For the first time Jared sees Catherine lose some of her cool, pacing back and forth in the suite above the ballroom where their supporters are already starting the party, election coverage blown up to Superbowl-size. "Democrats never turn out in the midterms," she's saying, for the fifth time. Maura squeezes her hand, tugs her to sit on the couch in front of CNN. There are days Jared wants to challenge Wolf Blitzer to a duel. This is one of them.

"What do you think?" he says to Jensen, the two of them sitting on the room's desk. Jensen frowns at him. "Me versus Wolf Blitzer, duel at dawn. Who wins?"

The polls are still open for four hours. They've all voted, they've had the photo op of Jensen thanking campaign volunteers. Nothing to do now but wait. "What weapons did you choose?" JD says. He's smoking an actual cigar, which is one hundred percent against the rules of the hotel. Day like this, Jared's pretty sure Catherine will pick up the bill. "I assume he decided to fight you, that means you get to pick the weapons."

"What do you think?" Jared says. He leans his shoulder against Jensen's. Momentary touch, friendly, and it's no one's business if he soaks up Jensen's heat like he's the damn little match girl. "Sabers? Pistols?"

"You versus Wolf?" Jensen's arms are folded, a Diet Coke can in his hand, forgotten. He taps his fingers against it, thin drum. "Just fists. Beat the crap out of him, Jay."

JD lets out a loud _ha_ and it gets a little smile out of Jensen, too, even if he's too tense to really laugh. Jared knocks into him again, gentle, and Jensen unfolds his arms, discards his soda can and braces his hands against the lip of the desk. His knuckles touch Jared's thigh, steady and unseen, and Jared straightens up his posture, tries to breathe even, to quiet his racing heart. This whole two years has been a longshot, of epic proportions, but it was a thing worth doing, either way. To talk about the issues in a way that was true, and clear, and honest. Nudging that Overton Window just a tiny bit more toward the side of sincerity, as JD would say.

His phone beeps, in his pocket. Danny. _Did you see?? Oh my god!_

He looks up at the television, confused—their feed has been a few seconds behind, but he thought surely—and there's a big flashing graphic, _BREAKING NEWS_, and he flails his hand down between them and folds it over the top of Jensen's, squeezing so their fingers lace together. Tight enough that the bones grind, and it hurts, but there's nothing else Jared can do. No more strategy to run, nothing else to campaign for. All of it for this.

"Hey," Jensen says, quiet, while Wolf fucking Blitzer intros with some patter. Jared tears his eyes away from the television and Jensen's looking at him, head-on. All his attention, _here_, and Jared's heart thumps, right in his throat. Jensen's knuckles squeeze against his. "No matter what. Stay."

Jared huffs, shock closing up his throat, gripping his chest. "You have to ask?" he says.

Jensen smiles at him, a wry quirk, his head ducking. Around them, the campaign staff starts to cheer.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/187095420344/fic-campaign-events)


End file.
